


Excursion

by Mithen



Category: All Elite Wrestling, 新日本プロレス | New Japan Pro-Wrestling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Kayfabe Compliant, Mentor/Protégé, Mild Hurt/Comfort, exchange treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25948687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/pseuds/Mithen
Summary: In a slightly different world, Shota Umino went on excursion to AEW, and crossed paths with Jon Moxley on his way to winning the AEW championship.
Relationships: Dean Ambrose | Jon Moxley & Umino Shota
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15
Collections: Extreme Deadline Exchange '20





	Excursion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [APgeeksout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/gifts).



> An Extreme Deadlines treat for APGeeksout!

“Shota- _chan!_ ”

Shota Umino did his best not to bristle as one of his newest bosses approached him with a huge grin on his face. “Mr. Jackson,” he said politely, bowing. “I must formally thank you for accepting me as a member of AEW during my excursion from--”

Nick Jackson slapped him on the shoulder. “Who better to have for our very first New Japan contact than Red Shoes Unno’s beloved son?”

Shota bowed again to give himself a moment to recover from the interruption. It was a typical Young Bucks thing to not let him finish his memorized speech; who knew what random direction the conversation would go in now? “Here I wish to be treated as just a wrestler,” he said carefully. “Not the son of a New Japan official.”

Oh,” said Nick, “you’ll always be Red Shoes’ son to us.” His smile was not precisely friendly. Shota remembered the many, many times the Bucks had crossed paths with his father and sighed inwardly. Well, he had always known his excursion might be a little more challenging than other Young Lions' because of that. He could handle it. He could handle whatever AEW threw at him. Hadn’t he survived Minoru Suzuki? So he could handle--

Behind Nick, a door opened. Jon Moxley walked into the hallway, and Shota realized there were some things he wasn’t ready to handle after all.

“Shooter?” Mox’s face was a study in total surprise. Shota looked down and scuffed at the concrete floor with one shoe, feeling vaguely like he’d been caught doing something bad.

“Didn’t you know he was coming?” he heard Nick say. “He’s on excursion.”

“I knew he was going on excursion, but I didn’t know it was--he didn’t tell me. Shooter, you didn’t tell me.”

Shota looked up, feeling his face hot. Of course this was going to happen, yet somehow his brain hadn’t quite accepted it. He hadn’t been able to think of what to say that didn’t sound vaguely pathetic: _I’m coming to your promotion! Isn’t that great? Do you need a tag team partner?_ So he hadn’t said anything at all. “Sorry,” he mumbled to Mox’s startled face.

“I’ll let you two catch up,” Nick said breezily, and disappeared down a hallway to some other important meeting, leaving Shota flustered and uncomfortable. He started to make some excuse to leave, but Mox was already shooing him down the hallway to a break room. Once they got there he started fussing with a coffee maker, mumbling under his breath; Shota knew it probably should be him making the coffee, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to figure out how to run it. So he just sat there until Mox put a cup of scalding hot black coffee in front of him, turned a chair around it and straddled it, looking at him.

“Long time no see, kid,” Mox finally said.

“It’s good to see you,” Shota managed, looking down at his coffee.

“I assume you’re not going out there to wrestle in black trunks, huh? Have you thought about new gear, a new look?”

“Of course!” Shota fumbled through his bag, pulling out his new trunks and handing them over to Mox. _Please don’t let him laugh._

Mox shook out the white and pink cloth, nodding in approval. He turned them around and saw the name written on the back--and now he did laugh, but it was a short bark of surprise, not derision. “Really?”

“It’s easier for foreigners to remember, I think. Maybe?” Shota said. “And it’s a good… theme,” he said, pointing to the crosshairs etched on the knee pad. “Sharp shooter, right?”

Mox nodded thoughtfully. “That’s pretty clever, kid.”

“And I was thinking maybe I could… I could dye my hair pink. To match.”

Mox gave him a level look over his coffee. “I don’t know if I recommend pink hair, Shooter.”

“You did it,” Shota said. Mox’s eyebrows went up and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Heh,” Mox said. “There’s a lot of shit I did that you shouldn’t be doing. But pink hair’s probably in the top twenty, I guess.”

“I guess,” Shota muttered.

“Look,” Mox said, leaning forward suddenly, his face serious, “I gotta level with you, kid. You probably don’t want to be too connected to me. I’m making some powerful enemies here.”

Shota grinned at him. “You’re going to go after Jericho, aren’t you?”

“Course I am,” Mox said. “And if I do, well… the Inner Circle’s not gonna go easy on anyone who’s an ally of mine.”

Shota kept grinning, partly to cover up an almost childish delight at being described as an “ally” of Jon Moxley. He’d take any amount of punishment from the Inner Circle in return for that. “I don’t want anyone to go easy on me.”

Mox made a noise caught partway between a growl and a throat-clearing. “Right,” he said after a moment. “Well. Let’s both be careful.”

Shota was pretty sure Jon Moxley had never been careful a day in his life, but he was so thrilled by that casual “let’s” that he didn’t argue.

* * *

**Help.**

Roman Reigns did a double take at the message on his phone, which was followed in quick succession by **Help, Ro, help.**

“What’s got you rattled, Dean-o?” Roman muttered as he typed a response. He should call him “Mox” now, but at least in the privacy of his own home and head, he knew it was always going to be “Dean.”

His phone lit up with messages, and Roman frowned as he read them and put together his friend’s elliptical, scattered, and often-profane thoughts. Then he laughed.

**That’s not so bad, uce.**

**Put my stupid ass nickname on his gear fucking hell. Help, what do I do.**

**Just be a dad to him.**

There was a long pause.

**So like say I’m going out for cigs and then not come back? Seems bad Ro**

Roman winced a little. Then he typed, **Wanna FaceTime?**

**Yes God yes**

Mox started talking the second his face appeared on the screen, before Roman could say anything. “I don’t know shit about being a good ‘father figure,’” he said, making the air quotes with his fingers, “and you damn well know it!”

“You’ll be fine,” Roman said. 

“I just wanted to talk to someone who was a good dad,” Mox mumbled, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Give me some Good Dad Magic.”

“Just be there for him. Have his back.”

“‘Just be there for him. Have his back,’” Mox echoed him, a bit bleakly. “So simple.”

“It kind of is.” 

“Fuck,” Mox moaned. “Kid’s got terrible taste in heroes.”

“I dunno,” Roman said. “Sounds like he and I have a lot in common.”

Mox gave him a scathingly incredulous look and hung up without saying goodbye. But then, he never said goodbye. Never had.

Just one of the things Roman loved about him.

* * *

“You ain’t half bad, I guess,” Joey Janela said to Shota as Shota gulped down a bottle of water backstage. His first match in AEW! It was AEW Dark, of course, but that was fine. And he’d lost to Janela, which was less fine. But he’d made a decent fight of it.

“Thanks,” Shota said.

“So,” Janela said very casually, “what’s up with Moxley?”

“Up?” Shota echoed. Okada had pulled Shota aside before he left Japan and told him that the easiest way to buy time when dealing with foreigners was to just repeat a couple of words they’d said back at them. “They’ll assume you don’t understand what they’re saying, and that will give you time to think,” Okada had said with a wry smile.

It seemed to work with Janela. “Yeah, up! Up! Like, what is Moxley doing? Is he going to accept Jericho’s offer? Join the Inner Circle?”

“Mm.” Shota took another drink of water. “Maybe.” Like hell he was, but it wasn’t Shota’s place to say.

“It would be a smart move.”

“Maybe,” Shota said again.

Janela flashed a toothy smile. “You keep your mouth shut, kid. That’s a smart move too.”

He wandered off, leaving Shota to decide that he didn’t like being called “kid” at all, unless Jon Moxley was doing it.

* * *

“Hey, squirt.”

Shota wasn’t sure what a “squirt” was, but he was pretty sure he hated it more even than being called “kid.” Especially when it was Santana saying it. “Yes?”

Santana grinned. “Congratulations. You’ve got a match on Dynamite tonight.”

Shota kept his face expressionless and just looked at him.

“With me,” Santana finished, as Shota had expected he would.

“Okay,” said Shota, just for the pleasure of seeing Santana’s eyes flicker for a second.

“Understand,” said Santana, speaking insultingly slowly, “that the Inner Circle is sending a message to Jon Moxley.”

Shota cast his eyes up, considering. “Maybe you should try a text,” he said after a moment.

Santana’s face twisted before he whirled and walked away, and Shota knew he’d earned himself some extra bruises for that.

Worth it.

* * *

“A ten minute U.S. television debut match. My father will be proud,” Shota said thoughtfully. He started to wipe sweat out of his eyes, but winced when he tried to move his arm. “Of course, it was only that long so Santana could beat me up more.”

“You got that nice dropkick against him.” Mox put a bag of ice to Shota’s elbow. It felt strange and wrong, a reversal of what should be. But it also felt blissfully cold against the bruises and scrapes.

“He’s strong,” Shota said. “And he’s not even the strongest member of the Inner Circle. Please be careful, Moxley- _san._ ”

Mox nodded, his lips pressed tight together, still looking at Shota’s elbow. “My match is with Sammy tonight, kid. I’ll be fine.” He patted Shota gingerly on the back. “Promise me you’ll go back to the hotel now. Take a walk on the beach. Have a drink--uh, are you old enough to drink?” Mox’s face scrunched up in concern until Shota nodded. “Right. Have a drink. Flirt with someone pretty.”

“I think I’ll stay,” Shota said.

“You can barely stand,” Mox snapped. 

“I don’t think anyone will want to take a walk on the beach with me right now,” Shota said, gesturing at his battered face.

“Nah, women dig the wounded warrior look. Trust me.” Mox chuckled, then suddenly went serious. “Please. Go back to the hotel.” He met Shota’s eyes. “ _Please,_ Shota.”

In the end, it was hearing Mox use his name correctly that was the final straw. Bruised and exhausted, he let himself be bundled into a taxi--he heard Mox speaking to the taxi driver in English too fast and muttered to understand completely, but he got the impression the driver was being told not to come back to the arena even if his passenger changed his mind. As it turned out, he fell asleep in the taxi and only managed to find his room by blind luck in a pain-fogged haze.

He turned on his TV just in time to see Chris Jericho remove one of the spikes from his jacket, just in time to see Jon Moxley helpless and held down as Jericho stabbed him in the eye. No one came out to help him.

Shota Umino fell asleep weeping tears of pain and helpless rage.

* * *

“I’ll be fine.” Mox’s face was obscured with bandages.

“He…” Shota racked his brain for the English word “stab,” and failed to find it. “He poked your eye!”

Mox chuckled weakly, then took in Shota’s state of stuttering rage and patted him on the back. “I’ll heal. And I’ll get my revenge.” He held up two fingers to the hotel bartender, who slid two shot glasses over to them. “Here’s to revenge, Shooter.” He held up a hand to halt Shota as he lifted the glass. “You’re really over twenty-one?”

“I’m twenty-two,” Shota reassured him.

“Well then. _Kanpai!_ ”

“ _Kanpai,_ ” Shota echoed him, not at all surprised that the only Japanese that Mox seemed to have learned was a toast, and downed the shot. He didn’t know what the alcohol was--his drinking had been limited to beer--but it was sharp and rich and burned its way down his throat until he coughed.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he said, his eyes blurring at the sting of alcohol.

“I’m glad you weren’t there,” Mox said. “I don’t--” He swallowed and gestured for another shot, downed it. “--No more factions for me, kid.”

Shota was secretly relieved Mox hadn’t ordered him another drink. “I know. But. I wish,” he said. In Japanese the words would have been filled with unsaid implications, weighted with meaning. In English they just sort of flopped around. Frustrating.

“Shooter, you’re gonna be great,” Mox said. He spread his hands out as if conjuring a vision. “You’re gonna learn from some of the best in the world here in AEW. You’re gonna go back to Japan and show ‘em all. Maybe start your own faction. Climb the ranks. Win championship after championship. Someday I’ll be an old washed-up wrestler, doing interviews saying ‘Yeah, I knew him when. I saw how great he was right away.’” He grinned at Shota. “Believe me.”

“You’re wrong,” said Shota. Mox’s eyebrows went up. “You’re _wrong,_ ” Shota repeated. “You’ll never be washed-up. Ever.”

After a moment, Mox smiled. 

“The rest is true,” Shota said, and Mox nodded.

They sat together in the hotel bar, both of them battered and bloody, and Shota Umino looked out at the palm trees swaying, at the waves breaking on the foreign white sand and the stars in the night sky, and marveled at how big and strange the world was. To be sitting drinking like an equal--well, almost like an equal--with the future AEW champion, in this big strange painful beautiful world.


End file.
